To be a great writer, get a great critic

Work by the biggest names in literature was often greatly improved by a
trusted friend or agent. A new book on William and Dorothy Wordsworth proves
the point

A new book by Professor Lucy Newlyn, professor of English Literature at Oxford University, examines the relationship between the poet William Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy (pictured). She
demonstrates how much both their work derived from their collaboration

Wordsworth’s Daffodils – “I wandered lonely as a cloud” – is a poem many of us were required to learn by heart at school back in the days when acquaintance with the classics of English poetry was a regular part of the curriculum. It came as a surprise years later to learn that the “I” of the poem should really have been “we”, the lonely cloud-wanderer having actually been accompanied by his sister, Dorothy. The germ of the poem was indeed to be found in Dorothy’s journal where she wrote of the walk during which they came upon that “host of golden daffodils”. In truth, it seems that Wordsworth often used his sister’s journal as a quarry from which poems might be made.

Now in a fascinating, though severely academic and completely unsensational, book, William and Dorothy Wordsworth, Lucy Newlyn, professor of English Literature at Oxford University, examines the relationship between the poet and his sister. Its sub-title is “All in Each Other”, and Professor Newlyn convincingly demonstrates how much William owed to Dorothy, and the extent to which his work derived from their collaboration. Dorothy was not only his beloved sister, but his muse, first reader, first critic and editor. There is no suggestion that William was not the author of his poems, but that much of his work grew out of his association

with Dorothy and that he was in debt to her, not only for inspiration and support, but for advice, criticism and even material, now appears undeniable. Nobody interested in the Wordsworths should fail to read the book.

Equally, nobody should be surprised by its argument. The romantic image of the poet or writer as a lonely genius may be attractive, but is only sometimes true. Much literature is collaborative. There have been schools of poets who influence each other and even supply each other with material. The correspondence between Philip Larkin and Kingsley Amis offers one such example; likewise Larkin’s correspondence with his lover Monica Jones. Everyone interested in Modernist literature knows that T S Eliot’s first masterpiece, The Waste Land, comes to us in its present form as a result of the severe editorial pruning to which Ezra Pound subjected it. Pound’s contribution doesn’t make the poem less Eliot’s, though it made it a finer poem.

Poets write for themselves first, and often for their close friends second. Christopher Isherwood was the first audience for W H Auden’s early poems. He would tell him to strike out certain lines, and Auden even suggested, only half-jokingly, that some of the poems should really have been regarded as an anthology of Christopher’s favourite lines. Those who find Auden’s pre-war poetry better than his later stuff may think this is because Isherwood was no longer the poet’s first reader and first critic.

It’s not only poets who may value the opinion and even assistance of others. It’s well known that Dickens gave Great Expectations an upbeat ending on the recommendation of his friend Wilkie Collins, and arguably spoiled the novel. Occasionally the advice may come from an outsider, even though this can scarcely be called collaboration. Anthony Trollope reputedly once heard someone complain that Mrs Proudie in his series of Barchester novels was becoming a bore – and promptly went home and killed her. Rather a pity, I’ve always thought.

Dick Francis relied on his wife, Mary, to do much of his research for whatever there was in his novels that moved away from the racecourse. His dependence on her was such that some put about the rumour that she actually wrote part of his books, though I don’t think this was true.

Others owe a debt to their publisher or agent.

William Golding is a good example. His first, and still most famous novel, Lord of the Flies, was a mess when he submitted it (and he had it rejected more than once). Then Charles Monteith, an editor at Faber, read the manuscript, saw its possibilities, and advised Golding on how to get it right. There’s no suggestion that he wrote any of the novel, but it wouldn’t be as it is but for him. Golding indeed rarely had much idea where he was going with a novel when he started it, or even when he was well into it; he seems to have depended on Monteith to show him the way.

A more dubious case was that of the American short-story writer Raymond Carver. He had little success until his work came to the attention of an editor called Gordon Lish. Lish saw possibilities in his stories, but thought they were too wordy. He cut them ruthlessly. The minimalist style, with its abrupt transitions and unspoken sentences, brought Carver success. The style came to be called Carveresque, but might, more accurately, have been described as Carver-Lish. The sad thing is that Carver wasn’t happy. “Even though they may be closer to works of art than my original,” he wrote to Lish, “they are apt to hasten my demise.” In Carver’s version of one story a man murders a woman; Lish made him kill two. Carver’s widow has recently released some of the stories as her husband wrote them. Not everyone thinks them as good as the Lish-edited version.

In some popular fiction and autobiography ghostwriters commonly do the work, and it’s not unknown for celebrity authors not even to have read the book published under their own name. This is a long way, a very long way, from Dorothy Wordsworth’s contribution to her dear brother’s poetry. No doubt, however, we shall move further still, and find books, even poetry, written by computers. Why not? After all, the use of human ghosts to continue the work of dead authors is now quite usual – and I daresay a computer could be programmed to write Jeffrey Archer novels, long after Lord Archer is in the grave.